Gears and Claws
by Jonas Grant
Summary: The world's on fire and we're the ones with the smoking gun, there is not a thing we've faced that we did not impose upon ourselves, even now, we drive ourselves closer to the abyss. Doves cannot reason with eagles, no pact between lion and lamb. Follow Cole Griffin of Talon Company as he descends into reality, trying to survive fallouts from the Lone Wanderer's actions.
1. November 7th 2 O'clock PM

**A/N: Complete Rewrite Project: I'm going to rewrite five of my most popular stories, starting with the first I've ever written, then I'll let readers vote on what the other four should be. Important note is that I will not write _anything_ else until I have finished a story arc and have received sufficient votes. I am going to publish only the rewrite's first chapter in the old version, but the rest will be its own story, so people can still read the original and cringe at it.**

Red pills in the morning, blue pills in the evening, no coffee, no Stimpacks and no chems whatsoever. Easy enough, but the doc has me repeat it three times before stamping a bold red APPROVAL PENDING on my file. A week from now, he wants me to report back here so he can do some more tests.

This is a complicated case, apparently. I'm from a Vault, over in the mid-west, one that didn't have nearly enough light bulbs. We all got a real simple surgery once we reached eighteen, like cataract removal, except they actually put something in; a small mirror-like sheet in the back of our eyes, made it easier to see. Two hundred years of dim red lights laced with pure darkness has apparently atrophied the muscles responsible for contracting the iris, meaning I, along with all of the vault, suffer from photophobia and a severe vitamin deficiency.

They only found out yesterday, when a laser sight being shined in my face as a joke completely blinded me. That's disqualified me from sniper duties without a doubt, most special forces assignments will involve flashes and explosions, so that's a no-go as well, but I'm not epileptic, I can just wear sunglasses, and three of my instructors are pushing hard for me to get a combat assignment nonetheless. The Company's spent a small fortune on my training, it wouldn't have done so if I wasn't damn good at my job to begin with.

I've got a seven days permission in Rivet City, along with the rest of my class, we're going to graduate from sniper school, pass the final test, get our tabs and then, if the doc clears me, I'll be assigned as a "Special Duty Officer" to one of our frontline units. Not SpecOps, but close enough, and good enough as far as I care.

Before Talon took me in, I ate one meal per two days on average, had wood splinters lodged in my abdomen and back, causing chronic pains and seizures, had bloatflies larvae chewing at my back, just out of reach, and about a third of my teeth left. As soon as I signed the contract, they patched me up, fed me, gave me a warm bed in a secure location and introduced me to the only friends I've ever had. They could set me up with latrine duty for life that I would still be content; starving for three years in a row puts things in perspective.

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The smell of oil and powder, steel and wood. I love armories. Lockers line every wall, the dim light filtering through the lockers in places, revealing grips, muzzles, selectors and a few armors. Military gear has a soul of its own, very distinct from civilian items. Wood is thicker than iron, steel feels harder than diamond, everything is built for efficiency and durability. It feels honest, real, as if everything else, cars, furniture, clothes, are just toys, make believe. They are, in a way. Mundane items are meant to be as shit as possible while satisfying the user enough that they'll buy more to compensate, military hardware is meant to be as good as possible for the lowest price.

It's like the jeeps. Military and mainstream models perform exactly the same, except the military one is bulletproof and can run on dirty motor oil or vodka.

The Quartermaster is quite puzzled when I hand him my papers. "Your team's already on a convoy halfway into the Red Zone, where did you come from?"

"Medical, I was…" No use telling him my life story, "Look, I'll hitch a ride on the next patrol and hoof the rest of the way, just get me kitted out, alright."

The old man's lower lips disappear under his facial curtain of a mustache as he debates it, "No can do, son," he finally says, leaning over the counter looking contrite, "Everything here's already spoken for, just got done shipping out surplus."

He must see me glance at the rows of crappy .32 rifles on our right, looking especially ugly compared to all these well-oiled, freshly polished R91s and AKs at his back, because he snickers and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. Plucking one out with his mouth, he bends over and pulls an ammo box from under the counter. In it are an assortment of cheap or homemade holdout handguns of various calibres. I even spot a flintlock in there.

"Next patrol's in four hours, stops at Arlington, that gear won't even get you out of the outpost." I'm about to tell him that's my call, but he adds, "Not in its current shape anyway. They taught you about gun maintenance I'll assume?"

"The basics…" It's hard to gauge how much you know about something until you've had the opportunity to see how little you actually know.

"Good enough." He nods towards the gun shelf "We lifted these off some local militia, I was about to strip them for parts, same for these," he holds up the ammo box, "Get a decent boomstick together, pick a backup that isn't too shit, and I'll whip you up some ammo that'll do more than tickle the Muties."

And, with that, he's off to the reserve, locking the door behind him. Every other gun in the place is locked tight or I'd just nab one right there. Instead, I pick three hunting rifles that look like they've spent the previous centuries in relatively capable hands and get to work stripping them down.

The first must never have had a wealthy owner, its bolt, trigger and barrel are all bent and rusted, but whoever held it last knew how to handle a carving knife; the stock is brand new, cypress from the looks of it, most likely from point lookout or further south. The cheek rest, stock and grip are all quite smooth, but the foregrip received no such attention, ending in a sharp edged block to which I'm certain I'll be able to screw a makeshift bipod or flashlight, as the situation requires.

The second rifle didn't have a stock at all, nor anything resembling a barrel, some genius with access to more tools than he was qualified to handle apparently decided a sawed off rifle was a good idea. Still, he also managed to retrofit an actual magazine for the rifle, ten rounds, give or take, and replaced the old bolt with what seems to be a pneumatic hammer's chambering mechanism. It's still bolt action and the inside's obviously been widened with precision tools, but the polished steel feels very high quality and its action is so smooth I can work it without closing my fist, just nudge the bolt up with my palm, work it back with the edge of my index, then shove it forward and down with the crook of my thumb.

Final gun is the best maintained of the three, with a wooden frame no older than a decade, albeit already rotting in places, as it was made of cheap press wood, the barrel is pre-war, but was always well maintained and gleams in the neon light. The loading mechanism is alright and I'm going to keep it for parts, just in case, but it's half a century old, made of junk parts smelted with a chemical welder and cheap mold. They even had a decent scope, a cheap knockoff of a World-War II optic, which you mostly find strapped to .44 magnums these days.

I don't think it's good enough that the Quartermaster will mind if I take that scope. Besides, whoever put this gun together welded it to the rear of the barrel, making it mine by the universal rule of go fuck yourself.

End result is… Pitiful, really. I've got a single high-cap magazine and four rusty old five shot models. The gun itself looks like someone jammed a pipe and a stapler onto a 2x4. I salvaged enough screws and bolts from all three guns that I don't need all that mess of tape and steel wire, but that just makes the gun look fake, too clean. Then again, it is chambered in .32, so it may as well be a toy.

I don't have any sort of combat webbing or sling to hang it on, so I just leave the gun propped against the counter and dig through the pile of low-grade junk the old man calls pistols.

Chinese, .32, 9mm… .22? Normally, I would not consider a .22 weapon for anything short of pest control, but that being the general attitude towards this caliber, it's safe to assume the armory can spare a few magazines of it, and this particular pistol, sleek black grip jammed into a shiny chromed tube, should be about as noisy as a slingshot.

I mean, it won't even kill Radroaches at point blank, but it'll let me plink at them all day long from a safe distance.

When the Quartermaster comes back, almost two hours after I'm done and an hour before my ride's departure, he's carrying a bucket full of .32 rifle rounds. They look pretty average to me, albeit a bit shinier than usual.

"Lengthened the rounds." Says the old man, handing me the bucket, "Increased the pressure too, so you don't lose muzzle velocity."

The first bullet I pick feels noticeably heavier than the training rounds I'm used to. The Quartermaster notices my hesitation and scoffs. "Didn't have time to press anything fancy, you'll be shooting iron wrapped in copper… Although it's more like bronze, if you wanna get technical. Didn't have enough copper for the whole batch. Might work wonders, might blow in your face, you let me know…" The pistol catches his eye and he chuckles again, "Well, that's not going to blow in anyone's face for sure. I'll get you some clips. No fancy bullets for this one I'm afraid, just factory hollow points… Try to aim for the soft tissues, might punch through a baby's skin, if you're close enough."

That babykiller joke's been around for so long it made it onto the Company flag.

Speaking of company policy, "Got any spare armors left?"

His smile is meaningful. I'm wearing the undersuit, black top, urban camo pants and Talon Company Sniper School's acronym, T.C.S.S. written on my back in blue decal. I may not be a scholar, but it seems to me fighting the hulk with nothing but a varmint rifle, a t-shirt and cargo pants is contrary to common wisdom.

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Trying to reach the square from above was a bad plan. Rooftops got me from the Capitol to this bombed office building and sewers are what got me from Arlington to the Capitol, but from here to the square, dominated by the remains of a highway exchange, is nothing but a maze of back alleys, dead ends and barricades. Figured I'd keep on navigating the rooftops, bypass the whole mess, but there are no rooftops for the most part, just tall concrete fangs jutting from the landscape as far as eyes can see.

The welding goggles are dirty, so eyes can't see shit right now, mind you. The building's stairs are intact, except for the four BoS Initiates slumped against the last flight, blood leaking from the seams in their suits.

I check each of them for weapons or ammo, but they've already been picked clean, all but the armors.

First door I come across has been thoroughly barricaded from this side, desks, chairs an a single Vault-Tec bobblehead stacking over it, but a massive hole was blasted two steps further and sunlight filters through. Somebody didn't have time for this bullshit.

The alley is wider that I expected, two delivery doors lead to the buildings on either side of it, belonging to two other structures, and I just came out the only ordinary entrance, unless that gaping hole was once a gate as well. The opposite end is blocked by a flatbed, fresh paint and inflated tires tell me it's one of ours. It lies on its side.

Fortunately, there is a way out on the left, an emergency staircase that's already rusted off its bolts and fallen to the ground. It used to lead to the building I was in just then, rising far above the blasted shell to the left and relatively intact store to the right, but now it's leading against the shell, giving me perfect access to whichever floor remains.

I pick the second floor, the idea being to stop climbing and get somewhere at street level where I can actually go places. Immediately the echoes of gunfire reach me, coming from somewhere ahead and on the left. Looks like I was one wall away from the action, back in that staircase.

"This is Private Griffin," I speak on the general frequency, "reporting in."

No response. Common sense says get out, training says get eyes on and assess the situation.

We hold the street ahead. Assault troopers, shooters, gunners, the whole nine yard are all crammed in the intersection between a backstreet and an alleyway. They are shooting at things I cannot see, down both sides of the street, and using the alley as a staging area. Eight men and women, roughly. I need to get to higher ground.

Easily done, considering half this place's rooms have no ceiling. I pick a creaky desk near the edge of the crater and use it to haul myself up one floor. There, I shove a filing cabinet onto its side and kick it roughly parallel to where I intend to lie down. With it covering my right flank and the left being theorically held by friendlies, I can focus on what the fuck's happening on the other side of that alleyway, because I just saw some dude's arm take a hike and that isn't normal unless the Brotherhood has invisible Deathclaws.

Paladin Ghost, the Lone Wanderer herself, with her electrified sword, ninja suit and incendiary Chinese pistol. I heard the stories, but watching that bitch move through my scope still freezes me long enough for her to behead a heavy gunner, put two rounds in a rifleman, vanish and then appear thirty steps down the alley, right in front of an assault trooper who had a bit too much confidence in his shotgun.

I squeeze out a shot and catch her right beneath the skull. The round doesn't penetrate, but she goes sprawling face first and I just know her spine's mush. Two more riflemen emerge from behind dumpsters on my side of the street, too close and off to the left for me to effectively cover them from this angle, as I've got the whole first floor blocking the way. They move carefully and I soon see why; in the short time I've glanced away, Ghost has vanished again. I read the files, bitch can run a hundred yards in twelve seconds flat, fully geared. She could be right behind me for all I know.

With a curse that echoes on the centuries old tiles, I drop back down onto the ancient desk, letting it crumble under my weight, and roll the rest of the fall, stopping by a chest high chunk of wall with windows on either sides of it. There are still quite a few Brotherhood Initiates around and I've just revealed my position, so I keep an eye on our troops using a glass fragment from the left window frame. When I hold my palm against it, I can see the reflected soldiers enter the alley. Not exactly high-definition surveillance, but it's better than catching a 5.56 to the face because HQ couldn't spare the armor.

Ghost doesn't even uncloak for this; she carves them both apart, first at the elbows, then the knees and finally one slash to rip both their throats open. I peek with my own eyes, but the setting sun flares into my skull, blinding me completely.

This time I don't curse. I can hear the squad downstairs taking fire, hear Ghost's stealth field crackle in tune with her sword as she carves a bloody swath through my people.

"Retreat!" Somebody yells. Best idea I've heard all day; Vertibirds are swooping in now and Enclave or BoS, I don't want what they're selling.

I make my way through the meeting room, knocking a file cabinet across the doorway, just in case, and freeze when the thing goes right through the floor.

The birds set down in the back alley, where I came from, and since Ghost is having a field day down in the street up front, I seem to be low on option. After debating it for a moment, still struggling to keep my burning eyes open, not to mention the dancing red spots and tears now clouding what little they see, I decide this is my stop, right through the ceiling and we'll see where we go from there. I'll take close quarters over a cast iron staircase with zero cover any day, marksman training or not.

The cabinet rings out like a cymbal when I land and everyone in the room turns to look at me. The must have noticed the fucking roof giving in, but its unlikely they thought much of it until I came through; Black-white-grey cargo pants, boxing tapes, a Talon Company t-shirt, a .22 suppressed pistol in my belt and a .32 hunting rifle smeared with boot polish on my back. I don't know what they think of this whole "pajama commando" thing I'm rocking, can't see their faces, but nobody shoots at me, so odds are I'm looking suitably harmless.

Nobody's running away, nobody's shooting, although a firefight's raging in the next room, so I'm guessing we're all waiting for whatever's supposed to happen next. I'm late for the party, I fucked up a cover shot and I just opened an entry way into their hidey-hole, so whoever I'm with right now has every right to be pissed off. All I want right now is to get in the rank and become anonymous. "Who's in charge here?" I call. A roughly humanoid figure steps up, but doesn't introduce itself, so I go first, "Private Cole Griffin, Special Duty Officer, Third Platoon. How may I assist?"

"You took that shot? Knocked her down?" The man calls, the only discernible accent in his voice being that of a veteran sergeant under fire.

"Affirmative, sir, assumed the round wouldn't knock through, tried to break her neck instead." Colors are returning, but it's all photo negative at this point, and I still don't get much contrast, just enough to tell the man I'm reporting to is wearing a cap.

"Fuck that was good. McKiney, what was it? Two hundred meters?"

A man at my back responds, muffled as if wearing a gas mask, "One-sixty with a three seconds window on a moving target. We get out of here, I want my rifle autographed."

"Five seconds!" Someone else barks, behind the officer.

"Copy!" He puts a hand on my shoulder, "Alright, Cole, you want to help? I've got the job for you; we'll flush her out of this floor, get as much height as you can and keep eyes on both the street and floors above, keep her from falling back, we'll burn through her shell, as long as you get her to stand still for five seconds, got it?"

Well, this is embarrassing. The man I'm talking two is wearing beige, his cap has an E circled with stars on it and everyone else in the room wears power armor, the red eyed evil nazi stormtrooper model.

I just reported in to the Enclave. Might as well keep on rolling with it, at this point. "Just as long as I can see the bitch."

He pulls something from his breast pocket and takes his cap off, handing me both, though I don't really see what the palm-sized device is supposed to be.

"Thanks." I blurt out before hurrying back the way I came.

The desk is splintered and there's a lot of stray 5.56 flying around. Combat armor is a luxury too easily taken for granted, a single ricochet could knock me out for good, meaning I don't have time to fuck around looking for a new way up. I head out back and climb the emergency staircase all the way up to the ten square foot of un-collapsed roof.

Kneeling up here, I've got eyes on most of the second floor, can't see the ground floor at all and nobody can get to what's left of the other six stories without me seeing them. Better yet, from this angle I see half a dozen Talon Company grunts backpedalling into the bloodstained alley, shooting at something just out of my sight. Through windows and bullet impacts, I can see Ghost dancing back and forth between dumpsters and cars, but never long enough to get a decent shot in.

Pulling my radio out, I try the Platoon command frequency, "This is Griffin, Enclave forces in the building have set up a trap, flush target into close quarters and they'll take her down."

I put the radio on the floor. The sun is no longer directly visible, but residual rays rising over the city are still fucking up my vision.

The device that Enclave dude gave me is a scope of some kind, with a hinged part that looks like the radio's belt clip. Putting the cap on, I attach the scope to it and push buttons at random until a dull blue picture flickers in my left eye. Skeletons are running around downstairs, silver lights pulsing in their red ribcages. The skeletons fade away between each pulses, so the imaging must be based on heartbeat somehow. Someone fires an assault rifle in a building to the right and the imager's feed overlaps with my other eye's vision. I see the gun illuminated in yellow, waves of energy rippling into the user's power armor, all of this showing up on against a brick wall.

Downstairs, little suns bloom at every bullet impact, creating a runway towards that bitch Ghost.

Her heart is beating fast. She's on the second floor, she sees me and she's scared because my rifle's already trailed at that palpitating star in her chest.

Talon pushed her back, Enclave pushed her up, I'm going to finish the job.

A vertibird catches fire overhead as I suck in a long breath and she shifts all her weight sideways, ready to dodge. I compensate, predict her trajectory. Last time I shot her in the neck, it failed, now I have a direct shot at the red faceplate, that little groove running down the middle is a structural weakness for sure. This time, she's done.

The rifle barks, a metallic sound that reminds me of a pickaxe, but that's because the goddam firing pin just exploded out the chamber. The misfired round still catches Ghost in the knee, but the pin has dug itself deep in my shoulder. Completely paralyzing my right arm. It hurts about as much as a cramp, but that's because the shrapnel is choking a nerve cluster, keeping the arm from realizing how badly it is hurt. The Brotherhood is storming the ground floor and I can see Talon Company troops falling back in the alley, driven away by the sheer volume of hostiles the BoS is throwing at them.

Ghost and I trade a glance. Enclave wins, she's dead, Brotherhood wins, I'm dead, killing one another won't change that and neither of us intend to stick around long enough for it to come to that. I leap right onto the emergency staircase, riding it as it crashes onto the opposite building, an adult movies store or something like that. From there, I head straight ahead, the Capitol in sight, about half a city block away. We had a solid foothold there an hour ago, medical installations, with some luck. Med-X with even more luck.

On the bright side, although my weapon has misfired, I technically still have all the parts to put it back together. Just need to dig them out.


	2. November 7th 10 O'clock PM

**A/N: Took a while, I know, but I'm working on a lot of things at once. If anyone wants to keep an eye on the story as it is being written or check out future chapters I have already written, feel free to go to Link, just be warned, there are spoilers in there, and not everything makes it to the final version.**

These fields, the little ponds by the Washington monument and what most likely used to be a pleasant park between it and the capitol, they might have had a name, once upon a time, but we just call it the Mall. This designation encompasses every museum and memorial around the massive pillar, although the Capitol is our only foothold in here.

Right now, I just sit down, cross-legged, on what used to be a trinket store for tourists. I can see the National Archives poking over another blasted out building behind me, and have a clear view of everything from our stronghold in the Capitol to the Brotherhood outpost around the Washington Memorial.

About fifty mutants are in the trenches, facing them from the left flank, from the capitol, are thirty-two Talon Company infantrymen and, on the right side, fifteen BoS Knights. Odds here favour the Brotherhood heavily. That firefight back in those alleys, the one Ghost quickly and brutally resolved, was undoubtedly a result of a botched push against the entrenched mutants that took us too close to BoS troops. My squad was on patrol duty when it happens, I can only assume they were ordered to flank the outpost and were cut off by Brotherhood reinforcement.

The Enclave showing up is not a surprise, though; ever since that water purifier started doing its thing, they have been taking cheap shots at the Brotherhood every chance they get. They mostly leave us alone in those scenarios, since we're essentially their decoys, but if we meet them without a common enemy to shoot at, their default stance is to just light us up and move on.

I'm not just having a grand old time sitting on a rooftop and contemplating all this shit, I actually need to understand what's going on, because no orders are coming from the radio and I'm not big on personal initiative.

The rifle might be busted, but its scope is still fine, so I peek into it and check out the trenches. Sun's just about down by now, most of the Mall is drowned in shadows, meaning I can now take the welding goggles off without feeling like somebody's pouring chlorine in my eyes.

Even with my elevation, I can't see what's going on in the trenches and the fancy Enclave gadget on my cap doesn't have the range to help out. I was taught to track targets in the wastes, know what to look for, but looking for clues out of a scope in the dark was not covered in training.

Shell casing and bullet impacts are everywhere, but that's nothing new, there has not been five minutes in the last two centuries without a firefight breaking out in this place. Green domes pace back and forth over the edge of trenches in some places; mutants. We didn't win that particular engagement, I guess.

No muzzle flares anywhere. In the dark, you'd assume these would show up crisp and clear, but it appears nobody in the trenches is being shot at for the time being. The Capitol building itself is another story; windows are lit up by automatic fire on every floor, a few explosions rattle my bones, but they're just mines or grenades.

The radio screeches and I almost drop my rifle. Bloody fucking thing just made my heart shit itself.

"Private Griffin, this is SDO Mendez, is that you on the rooftop?" SDO, Special Duty Officer, is not a rank, it's like referring to me as Sniper Griffin… Although I never actually made it to that. Still, I'm real glad this asshole's talking to me.

"Affirmative… I think. What's your position?"

"Brotherhood bunker, saw a scope glint, heard your transmission about five mikes ago. You need a recap of what's going on?" He sounds old, late forties, at the very least, a veteran. Calm despite being in a hole surrounded by super-mutants.

"Short version will do."

He scoffs, "Agreed. We made a push to recover BoS tech from this position, didn't work. I snuck in, but my escort's KIA and my Stealth-boy's run out, reckon you can provide some cover fire?"

Well, that's embarrassing… "Negative, Mendez, my weapon is non-functional and I have sustained serious but non-life-threatening injuries, I am, however, able to spot hostiles outside the trenches from your position to… Well, anywhere between there and the Brotherhood outpost." I don't tell him I haven't eaten a thing all day and that my head's beginning to spin a little.

He keeps quiet for a bit, time I use to scope out sandbag positions, elevated platforms, rubble piles, any sort of cover the man can use. Not ten steps from the bunker's rear entrance is a wooden ramp leading out of the trenches and directly in front of the museum of technology. Spitting distance north, that is, to my right, is a Metro entrance. Fifteen meters further is a mutant's version of a bunker; four concrete slabs balanced on one another Stonehenge-style with a ramp on the side and sandbags on the top.

Calling it a proper bunker is an insult to sane engineers, so let's go for pillbox. The museum of history is right next to the BoS outpost, full of Ghouls, ferals and regular ones. We have good relations with them; everyone's money is good, but jobs are scarce, as we can never overtly hang around that area without being burned out by the Brotherhood.

"I read you, Griffin, what do you suggest?"

"Head north, into the metro, should be just a short dash from where you are.

After another minute of silence, the SpecOps officer sighs and speaks, "Alright, Griffin, guide me." My radio shifts to red, indicating it's shifted to an encoded frequency. All I see is a green mass right above his position, holding a generator-sized box with tons of pipes jutting out the front of it.

"Minigun lining up with the trench's entrance, left side, second floor. No other immediate threats."

He ignores cover and explodes out of the trench, carried by cybernetically enhanced legs. He skids to a stop, raises a heavily modified Glock Plasma pistol and takes two shots at the mutant in the museum of technology.

"Two coming out of the subway." I'm calmer than I was a minute ago. This dude just pasted an Overlord in less time than I would take to spit. He spins, ninety degrees to the right, drops to a crouch and raises his weapon, leveling it for a perfect center of mass shot that takes out the lead mutant, but leaves the second unscathed and two steps away from arms' reach. The merc rolls aside and recovers in the exact same position as he was a second ago, but facing the mutant once again.

The beast turns around much faster than momentum should allow, swinging its massive sledgehammer one handed. The commando keeps cool, squeezes out a shot before ducking under the blow as though stepping under a clothesline. As the mutant swings his weapon back for a second try, my buddy steps so close he's ducking under its elbows and, from there, puts four quick shots through its kneecaps before rolling backwards.

The mutie's swing shifts its massive weight, right onto the injured knee, enough to send it into a prone position for less than a second.

"One climbing that pillbox, on your six." Same way as the metro entrance, complete opposite from the mutie he's dancing with. That apparently registers as his cue to stop messing around and my buddy puts a single bolt through the mutant's face before spinning around and centering his sights on the interloper.

Two more shots and that bad guy's history.

Another mutant, inside the trenches, take a few shots at the exposed commando, who returns fire, then freezes, apparently waiting for his target to pop out of cover again. It doesn't. "You're clear, Mendez." The longer he stays there, the more time he gives the BoS snipers to line up a shot.

"Thanks, kid." He calls, spinning his gun cowboy style for a second before popping it into his holster. As he disappears into the Metro tunnels, my radio crackles one last time, "I'll put in a good word for you at HQ, just try to live long enough for it to matter, eh?"

"Copy that, sir. Good luck."

Now we know going through the trenches is not going to be an option. There's a network of planks, suspension bridges and similar makeshift structures, probably set up by traders, then maintained by raiders and mercs. It doesn't even go close to where I want to be, heading deeper into DC, towards Rangers territory, but now that the BoS, Enclave and Talon forces have all withdrawn, the rats will be coming out of hiding all over street level and D.C.'s got some kickass rodents. Keeping off the ground ought to be safer at least until I get to the mutants' home turf, then… I don't really know, never faced a supermutant before. They can't be too fond of tight spaces, so I'm thinking the sewers might be a safe way into the metro network. From there, I can find my way to Underworld and wait there for the next supply shipment to leave for the outpost.

I must climb off this perch and stick to the streets for a few yards first, though, and that's going to be freaky as fuck.

A slippery rubble almost does the wildlife's job and I tumble down six meters of piled concrete, landing perfectly on my face and injured shoulder. My blood is jam and I'm a toast, it seems. That makes me laugh and cry as the pain makes me color blind. My blood is blue for a moment and the pavement is white. It's kind of pretty. Then reality drips back in, harsh and correctly color coded for my convenience.

The arm still isn't cooperating, so I flail around for a bit and finally end up using my rifle as a crutch. Legs are fine, but landing on your face doesn't improve the malnutrition and blood loss-induced disorientation.

Basically, my brain can't figure out which way is up just yet. Still, I hobble along on the walls, feeling as though I'm about to fall in that massive sparkly ocean overhead and successfully make it to the exact same building I was in earlier, only all its floors are intact, it's half a kilometer east of that building and someone thought it would be funny to design the main hallway like a sideway staircase. Luckily, my head injury has apparently granted me the power to walk on vertical surfaces, so I drag myself onto the first flight of stairs.

Shivers run up my spine as I turn my back on the floor, the end of the corridor somewhere over my head, and I need to latch onto the rail after the first step.

The ceiling has a door built into it, meaning it's probably where I want to go, but it opens outwards and I don't see a way to open it without letting go of the railing.

I try to step on the floor, but something just throws me back against the walls, like a strong wind, and I end up rolling to the next staircase.

It's only once I'm done with that one that a my brain, apparently otherwise engaged until now, puts everything back into perspective; "We are moving _up_, if it has stairs and you're drawn to it, it's the _floor_, if it has a doorway, it's a _wall…_ Tie your shoelaces and wear a helmet next time. Oh, and, your shoulder's fucked, do something about it."

I'm not hearing voices, but the way all this information just floods back in really feels like it got fed up with me and decided to intervene.

Nothing tries to fuck me on the way up, the planks do not look tempting at all, considering how much trouble I've just had mastering stairs, but let's not act like this is a choice I'm making.

The planks groan under my weight, but they never buckle or crack. They never branch off either, herding me in like cattle. The only call I've got to make here is which butcher store I'm going to be dropped off at.

For the most part, the shells I come across are just that; framework with corpses and bullet holes on every path down. Third one is not quite as bad. I'm not sure what it was used for, but none of the floors have collapsed. Not that I'm especially thrilled about that, considering they're all crawling with supermutants, I can tell from the sound and the smell.

Someone marked the rooftop access door with a white X. Chalk, so it has to be less that a few days old, the rain would have washed it off. Mutants and raiders tend to mark things with blood, not chalk, so there's hope here. Despite this being a shit idea by every definition, I push the faded red door open and scan the staircase with my magic goggles. The yellow icon in the top right turns red and begins blinking, but I don't see anything unusual down there.

Going in with my pea shooter held with the same care as if it were a .44 magnum, I carefully make my way down to the top floor. The door's shut and boarded up, and there's godzilla frolicking around in there, judging by the sounds, so I move on to the next floor. Door's half buried in body parts, but it's got an X on it, so I kick the gory mess aside and nudge it open.

This used to be a posh hotel, but now it's got new management and the once luxurious suites on this floor have been thoroughly trashed. I can tell because whatever trashed them also did a number on the walls. I take a single step in before having military grade steel shoved in my face, pure white light burning my eyes in the process. The other doesn't have time to say anything, I drop the gun, yelp and shield my face the instant I feel that pain hit.

"Wow," they go, old, snide and male, "you're just as fearless as mercs get, aren't you?" They think I dropped my weapon out of fear. I really don't feel like arguing with that.

Brotherhood of Steel scout, he's got the skin-tight suit and a 10mm silenced pistol, which he holds along with a heavy duty flashlight in an unfamiliar grip, resting his shooting hand on top of his… shining one? I like it, you can keep your weapon stable and if something gets to close, just whack 'em with the fat metal torch.

He's already pointing the thing at the floor and doesn't seem intent on finishing me off. Might just not realize I'm Talon Company, might just not care.

"So, how did you get past the mutants?" He asks, "Didn't get in from the roof, did you?"

I nod and he groans. "Well, looks like we're in this together, boy. Uglies own this place, I checked out the skybridge all the way, it just gets worse the deeper you go, hollow shells with no cover."

Yeah, that's why I didn't keep to the skyline. That and I was really hoping there were friendlies in here. What's he doing, cornering himself in mutie-town, though? "I noticed, climbing down on the outside's not gonna work either," I add, "street level is infested. You think this place has a direct sewer access?"

He's amused by the question, but takes the time to close the door before answering. "That staircase won't take us all the way down, the elevators are busted and the ground floor is a goddamn slaughterhouse." That doesn't answer my question, which he notices from glancing at my eyes, apparently, because he gives me a straight answer, "I don't know. Might be, but it isn't worth the risk."

Now it's my turn to be amused. "Out there, it's a full moon, clear sky. We walk those planks, they'll pick us off before we get ten feet." A glance at his pistol, then at mine, underlines another problem, which he gladly puts into words, though neither of us needs him to.

"We're not tanking down sentries with this firepower and we're not sneaking past them either, muties and their centaurs can smell a drop of sweat from fifteen feet away, they have perfect eyesight and their hearing is close to echolocation." That's all news to me. I guess the BoS would know a lot about these bastards, what with them having such a massive hard-on for one another.

"What's the plan, then? Cuddle up until room service comes knocking?" You know, I don't quite recall being this much of an asshole fifteen hours ago… My instructors said they'd turn boys to men and war would turn men into soldiers, now I know _soldier_ is actually a synonym for jackass.

He groans and nods, "They say a cornered fox can kill wolves and hounds."

"Who says that?" 'cause I heard a few sayings about foxes, but none along those lines.

He thinks about it, putting one hand on the doorknob, then chuckles, "Don't know, no one that's ever hunted an actual fox."

I try to smile, but end up cringing, which makes his smile fade as well. He opens the door without another word and we head out.


End file.
